Page 66 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

T he dullroot was thinning in my veins, and it was the worst possible development. It meant Erik should have administered my next dose by now.

It meant he knew my cell was empty.

I raced through the halls, swinging wide around every corner. My thighs protested; my breaths grew frantic; my specter squirmed painfully for release. But I wasn’t leaving without the compass.

My hair plastered my neck by the time I reached the candlelit gallery. I rushed to Queen Wilhelmina’s portrait and plunged my hand behind the arch. A click —then I heaved the arch open and stepped into the musty room.

The sight of my own royal portrait focused my scattered mind.

Gods cannot stand alone , Erik had said when he’d revealed this crowned rendering of me. Those words had formed his emblem, had cemented a truth in his bones.

So, I wrenched at the frame; like a window, the portrait squealed open on a hinge.

And behind my powerful likeness, within a velvet alcove and glinting under what little light poured from the gallery, sat the compass. As if, after years of preparing for his era of conquest, I was somehow the final piece of Erik’s plan.

A piece he would never possess.

My heartbeat thrummed as I palmed the cool bronze case and unlatched the lid. The needle stirred, and I readied for its pull on my specter.

But the pull never came. The needle must have grounded itself in my hands because it whirred on in search of another.

I snapped the case shut before it found its target, then I stuffed the compass beside my mother’s coin. With one last gulp of stagnant air, I left the concave room and sighed as my boots hit the marble.

But my sigh hitched, choked with panic, as I saw Erik leaning against his own portrait. His eyes shone like blue flints in the dark.

I staggered back, almost tumbling when my heels caught my skirts.

One more minute—just one —and I might have made it out.

“I was halfway to the gates,” he said softly, his voice skittering over me. “Then I asked myself: Would you use your freedom to flee?” He glanced toward my pocket, where the compass resided. “Or to finish your hunt?”

Cold sweat pricked my forehead. He stood a few yards from the door—too far to block my path but close enough that he could . He’d chosen that spot deliberately. A predator toying with his kill.

As if reading my thoughts, Erik gave a faint, discerning smile. On anyone else, it would’ve looked benevolent. “How long will it take you to decide whether or not to run? I won’t wait all night.”

I swallowed dryly, the roar in my ears muffling his words. Then I inched forward, quaking like an elk trying not to alert a wolf to its movement. With each step, I tested my specter against the dullroot. The poison wavered in my blood now; soon, I’d be able to push my specter past the surface.

But not yet.

Erik laughed, and my hairs stood up at the sound. “Surely you can go faster than that,” he teased. “Or has this excursion truly worn you out? I did tell you to eat.”

“I won’t be your prisoner,” I said.

“Good. I never wanted you to be.”

“I won’t be your bride, either. You’ll have to kill me or let me go.”

He smiled wider, bright eyes following my progress. “Are those my only options, or are you open to negotiation?”

Of course this was a joke to him. I was a joke to him. Without my specter, I was defenseless.

Another twist against the dullroot. Another tug toward the surface. Nothing.

Erik sighed with the air of humoring a child. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh in my methods. I see now that you require a gentler hand. A warm bed, a bathing chamber, comfortable clothing. We’ll start from there and continue this in the morning.”

“You mean after you’ve poisoned me again?”

“Ah, is that why you stall? You’re waiting for the dullroot to run its course?” He slanted his head, unnervingly calm. “It shouldn’t be long now. Then again, you look halfway to fainting. Let’s make a bet on which will drain first: the poison or your strength.”

He spoke steadily, his expression mild. Yet... there was a slight tenseness to his brow. A faint glimmer of worry beneath the mask.

He didn’t want the dullroot to run dry.

The knowledge fortified me.

The door stood three yards away; nothing obstructed my path. My body tensed to run—

“You know what will happen,” Erik said, suddenly serious, “and I don’t want to embarrass you. First, you shall rest...” His gaze dropped to my wrists; his voice deepened. “Then you will tell me exactly what power got you out of that cell.”

When his eyes lifted again, they’d lost any pretense of kindness. He didn’t know how I’d escaped, and the mystery was killing him.

“Come.” He smoothed his jacket. “It’s growing late.”

“No.” I unsheathed my knife, and Erik froze.

“Careful,” he said darkly. “Your defiance is only endearing in the right context. You must learn when to yield.”

I held his stare, my knife juddering. But I didn’t let it fall.

“Very well.” He drew away from the wall. “You will have to learn through demonstration.”

He started toward the door, but I didn’t lurch toward it as he expected. I dashed back to the portraits, crashed into King Hoyt’s frame, and thrust my hand behind the arch.

Erik growled, his thunderous steps changing course. But I’d already opened the hidden doorway—an entrance to one of the many passages Sabira had mapped out for me all those weeks ago. The passages I’d planned on using to bait my attacker.

Now I bolted through the gap and inhaled the familiar, musty air.

And just as I’d once imagined, I ran.

I frantically hurtled across the stones, slamming hard against each turning, teeth clashing with every stride.

The passage was stagnant and narrow, giving the impression of being enclosed within the palace walls.

But as I heard Erik pounding after me, I knew I would rather fight for my life in here—would rather die in here—than go back to his cell.

Back to the darkness and hopelessness and the rattling chains. Back to the fear of spending forever behind those bars—alone but not alone, because Erik would always be there, wearing me down until I took the shape of what he wanted.

Raw terror bled into my desperation, the pressure of it near bursting as I rounded another corner—

And heard Erik smack to the ground.

My hope flared, sharp and bright, but I couldn’t let it derail my focus. Though I’d prepared these passages weeks ago, I’d memorized each route—had even run through the steps in my anxious dungeon dreams.

So, I knew how to avoid the traps I’d set.

Erik did not.

His cool laughter echoed across the stones as he hauled himself up. Stringing twine between the walls had been Garret’s favorite trick—one he’d used over and over when we’d set similar traps at Capewell Manor.

But Erik would see the next few coming.

“Very creative, my love.” His footsteps clipped onward, more careful now. “How long have you been planning for this chase?”

I pushed my legs to put more distance between us, my palm slippery around the knife. Even in my nightmares, I hadn’t imagined that Erik would be the one to hunt me through these passageways.

He paused at what must have been another length of twine and chuckled again.

Then a grunt.

In his arrogance, he hadn’t seen the tar I’d avoided. And now his boots were stuck in it.

“What is this?” he called. “A child’s game? You’ve gone to all this trouble, and to what end?”

He didn’t understand. Unlike the attacker for whom I’d set these traps, I didn’t plan on cornering Erik. I only needed to slow him down.

I only needed to get away.

I heard the clink of glass, then Erik’s curse rang out.

Hysterical laughter bubbled in my throat. Gracious gods, this was actually working!

“Alissa,” he warned, all amusement gone. “I’m growing bored of this.”

I refused to hear him. A sliver of light trickled across the stones, growing closer—the door to the kitchens. The door that would lead me out .

With victory propelling me, I didn’t see the bump in the floor. But I felt it. My ankle rolled and I flailed, trying to regain my balance.

I heard the thud before the sensation registered. Then pain all over—singing in my bones, sending sparks across my vision.

The mental image of that cell blazed through my agony.

I had to get up.

My heavy hands scrambled over the stones, and I found the knife. I forced myself to stand. But my eyes watered from the blow; I couldn’t see the light anymore.

Where were the kitchens?

Then I heard Erik’s sharp breaths— too close —and I knew where to turn—I was already stumbling away—

He grabbed my cloak, wrenching me back. I raised the knife a second before he slammed me against the wall.

The air burst out of me. I was blind, my head ringing.

My sight returned in swimming pieces: the pale flash of Erik’s eyes, the glint of the blade, the glow from the kitchens. His body crushed me, keeping me upright. His fist wrapped mine so tightly around the knife handle that the latticed grooves dug into my palm.

I panicked, trying to twist free. But Erik’s grip was unrelenting as he guided the blade to my throat.

“Enough,” he said, quiet but firm. The cool steel pressed my skin. Not to cut me, I knew, but to keep me still. To keep me from fighting anymore.

I should have aimed lower. I should have run faster.

I should have never left Vereen.

I must have been crying because Erik tutted, his breath hot on my face. “Don’t give me those eyes,” he scolded. “This was your doing.”

I tried to squirm away again, but he shifted with me, hissing in discomfort. I looked down and saw his feet bleeding. He’d removed his boots after the tar as I’d anticipated and stepped right into the broken glass.

Still, it hadn’t been enough. Because, inch by inch, with unbroken strength, Erik prized my fingers off the knife. I resisted at first, my knuckles clicking under his hold. Then all at once, my grip slackened. The knife clanged to the stones.

My knees folded.